Some of us like our English short, others prefer it expanded. Some of
us, for instance, might say that "NERO fiddled while Rome burnt."
But this bald statement is obviously quite unsuited to the decorative
instincts of the age, for in the _Daily Telegraph_, only last week, I
read that "a notorious Roman Emperor is credited with the performance
of a violin solo during the raging of a serious conflagration in
the heart of his capital." The omission of NERO'S name gives to this
sentence a delicate parliamentary flavour, which brings it absolutely
up to date.
* * *
But what a noble example it is! Henceforward, for instance, if it
should ever fall to my lot to write about HENRY THE EIGHTH of England,
I shall feel a mere fool if I state that he married seven wives. No,
no. A British monarch, celebrated in the books of the historians as
the Eighth, and hitherto the last of his name, is reported, on
the authority of the Ecclesiastical registers of his time, to have
entertained so warm and overpowering an affection for the connubial
condition commonly known as matrimony, as to have entered into it with
a comparatively light heart on as many occasions as would equal the
sum total of predecessors bearing his name who have supported the
burden of the crown of these realms. For a very slight increase of
salary I am prepared to double the length of this sentence without
adding a single fact to it.
* * *
Here, too, is a delightful extract from a gorgeously illustrated
volume issued by a firm of house-agents in praise of what they very
properly term "an imposing structure in red brick." "It is difficult,"
they declare (and after reading their description one can well believe
it) "to conceive a more replete Town Mansion, embodying such artistic
and delicate schemes of decoration, one where wealth has wrought such
a revelation of harmonious and fitly fitments, or where the studious
consideration of the minutest detail contributing to health, enjoyment
and comfort has been more completely manifested. This, combined with
its advantageous position removed from any main thoroughfare with its
accompanying turmoil, renders it a perfect dwelling and an idealistic
London Home."
No more by White Star or by Guion
I leave my native land to roam.
I've purchased and I occupy an
Idealistic London Home.
Last year my London I to quit meant;
But now, with all an owner's pride,
I gaze upon each fitly fitment,
And, lo, desire for flight has died.
Place me where schemes of decoration
Give both to Art and Health increase,
Where Wealth has wrought a Revelation--
I ask no more, I rest in peace.
* * *
Next let us contemplate a pure gem of descriptive English from a
sporting contemporary. It occurs in an account of the athletic contest
between Cambridge University and the United Hospitals:--
Scarcely a cloud flecked the blue heaven yesterday afternoon,
and a dazzling sky burnished the Stamford Bridge grounds into
an acre of reflected sunshine. What a pleasant spot the tryst
of the premier athletic club on which to hold athletic revels!
It was not to be expected that the people would show a front
at the carnival. So much to do nowadays, what with cycling at
Hurlingham, and the Beauty wheel show on the Row in Battersea
Park. Equal to the occasion though proved many English girls,
and it was pleasing indeed to note their presence in the
pavilion and enclosures. Bold as Britannia as a rule in this,
the nineteenth century. And don't forget this, innocent as
a posy all the while.... Think of this now. W. MENDLESON
(C.U.A.C.), but by birth a New Zealander, figuratively
speaking, gazed on the ruins (long jump ruins, of course) of
Britishers at Stamford Bridge. It was with a quickened pulse
that one watched the Hurdle Race. 'Pon our soul 'twas a
difficult problem to solve a few steps from home to tell
which would win, PILKINGTON or LOWE. The flag went up for the
visitor from the banks of the Cam. Nevertheless, no one can
assert but that the medical banner remained hoisted at the
truck in honour of their representatives. Gallant seconds!...
Of course H. A. MUNRO gave us a taste of his quality in the
Three Miles. Verily he ran as though able to keep up pacing
from sunrise to sunset. 'Twas a glorious victory that
he gained. Neither must the plucky bid made by HORAN be
forgotten. Ah! if he had only been MUNRO! But he wasn't, so
there was no use in thinking about that.
How melancholy are these might-have-beens. If NAPOLEON had only been
WELLINGTON. But he wasn't. So there was no use in thinking about that.
* * *
HENLEY Regatta, I understand, is to be an international festival
this year. A Dutch crew has entered for the Thames Cup, but it is not
stated that they carry a broom in their bows. Nor is it to be inferred
that they will make a clean sweep of the prize. Besides many English
crews they will meet a crew from France. Then from Toronto come four
Argonauts sailing not for the Golden Fleece, but for the Stewards'
Challenge Cap; and from Ithaca, N.Y., eight modern Trojans,
undergraduates of Cornell University, have set out intent on the
capture of the Grand Challenge Cup. To all of them _Mr. Punch_ extends
the right hand of good fellowship, though, being British to the
backbone, he cannot wish for their triumph over his own gallant
oarsmen. And amongst these he especially welcomes Mr. C. W. KENT, the
Hero of Leander, who, having four times stroked his crew to victory,
is once more seated on the slide of honour to defend possession of the
Grand,--KENT, the pride of joyous Moulsey, whom at his birth the
Fates endowed with the triple gifts of cunning, resource and courage,
bidding him wield an indomitable oar in undefeated crews. As when
a fox, emerging from the tangled covert----But I cannot pursue the
Virgilian method any further. Let the event next week speak for
itself. Here's luck all round, and may the best crew be an English
one. In any case, may the best crew win.
* * *
The gentlemen from Cornell have brought over with them, in addition to
their boats and oars, a terrible battle-cry, "Cornell, yell, yell, I
yell Cornell." Manifestly the members of the London Rowing Club cannot
model themselves on this, for to cry, "London, done, done, I'm done,
London" would, I trust, be as inappropriate as it would certainly be
discouraging.
* * *
My recent investigations into the condition of some of our great
provincial cities lead me to the depressing belief that something is
always wrong with some of their streets. Here, for instance, is "NEMO"
writing to the _Manchester Guardian_ to complain that "on Saturday
evening the Bury New Road was filthy, whilst the odour was equal to
that of the Ship Canal, but different. Formerly there seemed to be an
effort made to have the road brushed up on Friday ready for Saturday
and Sunday, when thousands of well-dressed and happy people--Jew and
Gentile--promenade it on their way to breezy Kersal Moor." But why,
may I ask, should there be no well-dressed and happy Christians
promenading on their way to Kersal Moor? It may be that they have
followed "our local representatives," who, "NEMO" suggests, "are
enjoying their holidays, or are immersed in golf," which I take to be
a delicate euphemism for bunkered.
* * * * *
A LATE-AT-NIGHT RIDDLE.--_Q._ Why is it probable that the supper
provided by the Royal Academicians for their guests at their _soirée_
would be chiefly or entirely vegetarian? _A._ Because all the dishes
are "R. A. dishes."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TRUE TEST.
_First Screever_ (_stopping before a Pastel in a Picture-dealer's
window_). "'ULLO 'ERBERT, LOOK 'ERE! CHALKS!"
_Second Screever._ "AH, VERY TRICKY, I DESSAY. BUT YOU SET THAT CHAP
ON THE PIVEMENT ALONGSIDE O' YOU AN' ME, TO DROR 'ARF A SALMON AN' A
NEMPTY 'AT, AN' WHERE 'UD 'E BE?"
_First Screever._ "AH!"
[_Exeunt ambo._
]
* * * * *